


An 'Orrible Pair

by Corpyburd



Series: Lost Threads of Ripper Street [5]
Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 21:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpyburd/pseuds/Corpyburd
Summary: Back in Whitechapel, Frank Thatcher is at logger heads with 2 other Leman Street Sergeants. But things take a nasty turn when his new wife becomes their next target in a local street market.





	An 'Orrible Pair

Frank pinned Sergeant Butterfield by the throat having slammed him into the station’s wall in anger.

As “Greasy” struggled, Frank drew back his fist, ready to punch, having already floored Sergeant Thicke.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE?” barked Reid out of his office door.

“Just Sergeant Thatcher ... Sir ... showing Greas.... err ... Sergeant Butterfield ... a self defence manoeuvre ... ahem ... Inspector.” said Perkins covering for Frank.

“If you MUST practice ...THIS... then may I suggest ...” Reid’s tone lowered angrily "...YOU DO IT ... OUTSIDE!”

Butterfield and Thicke grabbed their belongings and quickly disappeared out of the main door and with that Chief Inspector Reid returned to his office.

“Don’t get suspended for those two ballick sacks.” said Perkins with some concern. “They ain’t worth it lad. They just rile you!"

“Alf they ain’t gonna say THAT ‘bout my Magdalena. NO!” Frank vented angrily. “Cuntsables. Both of them.”

“Frank. I'd happily pay you to knock seven bells out of them maggots. Here ...” and Alf handed Frank his police rota and notes for the day. “Try to be patient Sergeant.” said Alf lowering his voice. 

“Now say ... say you were to leave the statements for the Cartwright brothers to late afternoon ..." picking up his pen and opening the desk book ... "you could ...perhaps ... take a turn down the market ... observe what Thicke n Greasy get up to ... if you get my meaning. Observation Frank, it can’t be done from behind a desk. But it needs ... a light touch. You understand?”

Frank put on his hat then straightened his jacket collar. “A light touch Alf?” he grinned. “I promise you - Frankie Thatcher's lightest touch.” He turned and headed out into a busy Leman Street, checking the first call on his schedule.

Lunch came and went.

“Leave them to stew in jail for a few days, Sergeant ...” Frank heard the foreman’s voice say “...should cool them down. They’ll get their pay docked, especially for the damage.” The Cartwright brothers were like chalk and cheese, one quiet and slow to anger but the other, a hot head with the drink. A workplace fight landed them both in jail.

As Frank took the statements from the co-workers and foreman he noticed that from the upper window he had a clear line of sight down the street to all the market stalls.

Clouds hung heavy in the Whitechapel sky like oily rags. Crowds milled and thronged, back and forth in the street under canopied barrows. Sellers with large wicker baskets shouting their wears while their customers shopped and gossiped.

Frank put away his notebook and pencil and leaned against the window.

“Aye, ye get a good view alright. The goings on we see from up here, especially when things get a bit het up!” the foreman scoffed.

“Do you mind if I ...” Frank said pointing to the large wooden framed window.

“Sure Sergeant. I’ll leave you to it then? Need to check on the men anyway but let me know what happens with the Cartwrights?” said the foreman nodding his head towards Frank.

Frank’s eyes now settled on the bustling street and within minutes he spotted them, Thicke and Greasy. "SHIT!" he swore to himself as they had a lone costermonger woman against the lane wall.

He noticed Greasy groping at her breasts, trying to pull her skirt up as she fought to keep it down.

His stomach churned. The woman squirmed as Thicke grabbed her face, trying to kiss her roughly. She was pleading with them to stop. He could see her mouth – NO, NO. Then she relented, flinging her money pouch at them. “Bastards! Bastards!” he said kicking the wall. 

Greasy picked it up, turned it upside down and flung the empty purse back at her. They snickered in laughter. Frank watched her terrified face as Thicke waved his finger in warning then continued their grinning swagger through the stalls.

He watched as they moved in on other stall holders, threatening them to relinquish their earnings; he balled his fists, punching the wall at their indecent assaults on women, and not just the sellers.

_OBSERVE? Perkins had said. Bugger observing this!_

But then...

His eye was suddenly drawn to a familiar blue dress and hat. He saw her – his bright angel - Magdalena – in conversation with a young woman at the haberdashery stall.

That’s right – he said to himself - the seller was Alf’s youngest daughter. Magdalena moved on to the fruit and veg stall.

He watched. She was now talking to the woman coster and could just make out an elderly woman with her walking stick at that stall.

Franks eyes flicked from Magdalena then back to Thicke and Greasy. He realised that they were heading towards each other – they were on a collision course. Then he saw Thicke mouth something to Greasy and point to Magdalena’s back.

That was too much for Frank. No more observing.

He bolted down the stairs, jumping the last 7 steps in one go as shoe leather hit the cobbled street. Turning, he flew in the direction of the fruit stall, pushing his way through the crowds. He was still a good distance from Magdalena and there was no way to get her attention.

Magdalena handed over her money and went to pick up her fruit. She stood bolt upright as she was aware of a man at her back, rubbing himself against her.

Loudly sniffing her hair, he pushed his head over her shoulder. She swallowed in disgust, catching a whiff of his foul breath. He clamped his hand over the back of hers, grabbing it, with the fruit in hand. She froze as his clammy hand squeezed hers tightly.

Magdalena tried to remove herself from his grip but she now found her way was blocked by Sergeant Thicke.

“Well ... Well ...Well.” sneered Butterfield in her ear. “If it isn’t Mrs Thatcher. Or should I say, Sergeant Thicke - the Polak thief, stealing fruit?”

Pressing his face hard against her, he lifted her hand which still enclosed the fruit and taunted. “They say a young woman’s breasts are like a firm pear. Shapely and juicy.” His eyes now settled on the angry face of the young woman fruit seller.

Then a jeering Thicke went on. “...and an older woman’s breasts are like onions ...” turning to the old woman with the cane. “...you see them, they make you CRY!” he laughed coarsely.

The elderly woman smacked Butterfield’s hand hard with her cane. “FUCK!” he shouted as he dropped Magdalena’s hand, recoiling back in pain. “MY BLOODY HAND!”

The older woman turned to face Thicke. “They say a young man’s cock is like an oak tree – MIGHTY AND HARD!” she said in a loud clear voice, swinging her walking stick up in one swift action, whacking Thicke in the groin. He doubled over, groaning.

“BUT THEY SAY YOUR COCKS ARE LIKE CHRISTMAS TREES!” she yelled angrily. “DEAD FROM THE ROOT UP – BALLS JUST FOR DECORATION!”

“WHY YOU OLD ...” screamed Butterfield as Frank managed to push through the laughing crowd.

“Now, now, Sergeants what’s going on here?” he interrupted rather breathless from running.

“ASSAULT. BLOODY ASSAULT. THIS ...” Thicke spat.

Frank took out his notebook and pencil in a derisive manner. “Are you saying that this ...” he nodded towards her. “... gentle, frail elderly lady - with walking stick - assaulted 2 burly Sergeants of H Division?” he said in a loud voice. “Do we have witnesses?” he pleaded, looking around the gathered crowd.

People in the crowd looked at each other and began to slowly melt away so Frank simply pocketed his notebook again.

“PAH!“ said Butterfield as he rubbed the back of his throbbing hand. “C’mon.” Thicke waddled after him cursing and rubbing his now tender groin. Both retreated from the market.

“Are you all right Magdalena. Did they harm you?” Frank asked putting his arm around her in comfort.

“No, Francis. I’m fine. I’m sure you’ll agree that Mrs Robinson and her daughter dealt with them ... this matter ... in a most efficient way.” She said smiling and nodding towards the 2 women who were grinning too.

“What an ‘orrible pair!” the elderly lady grumbled. “At least you haven’t turned out like them Sergeant Thatcher?”

He nodded and raised his hat, “Thank you ladies and a good day to you both.” As he said that, Mrs Robinson threw something at Frank which he caught. And then he looked up.

“I remember, Mrs Thatcher, a young scamp of a lad who used to pinch fruit from this stall many years ago. And he did like the peaches!” she said winking at him.

“Look.” he said quickly placing tuppence in Mrs Robinson’s hand. “I’m not like them others!”

“Thank you for your wise council Mrs Robinson.” Magdalena said as they left.

“I’m sure your young Sergeant falls into the first category of men, Mrs Thatcher, and not the second” came the cackling reply from Mrs Robinson, fixing out her stall again as her daughter giggled behind her hand.

A rosy hue flushed in Magdalena’s cheeks but she was grinning and desperately trying not to look Frank in the eye.

“Women’s talk was it?” he said earnestly as they walked. He felt as if he had been the butt of a private joke so he handed Magdalena half his peach to eat.

“So you’ve always liked peaches?” Magdalena said ignoring his question.

“Mmmh. An apple is an excellent thing – until you’ve tried a peach. Then there’s nothing to match it.” giving his wife a knowing sideways glance, holding out his arm for her to take, which she did. And giggled.


End file.
